“Late Arrival” by Pamela Wong

Long have I departed from you, long have I been petrified at the front steps, gazing at the gate, reconstructing the countless hours you had spent here, with the stubborn street light, dimmed in the swirling smoke of nicotine.

For twelve years had it questioned your patient heart? It agitates me as I am ready to take the blame from your distorted eyebrows.

Yet only the moth is left clinging onto the wall, waiting, waiting — for the patina on the doorplate to be shined by the headlights again, for the lock to be jingled by the muted keys again.

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